The Teacup
by p-attinson
Summary: John wakes up from a nightmare on Christmas Eve and decides to revisit 221B for the sake of comfort. Sherlock, who is actually alive, acts as if he's one of John's visions but is actually there with the pain of John thinking it's all in his head.


John Watson sat in the place of his past.

Sherlock's chair. He had woken up in the middle of the night to a perfectly strange room; Mary's. A dream he had awoke him and he felt some sensation to travel back to 221B. After all, he felt as if he owed Sherlock's living, breathing, shrine on Christmas Eve. Even after all these years.

John situated himself in the territory of his friend. But Sherlock's chair still held the warmth of his stature; a rugged feeling of placidity. He ran his hands up and down the arms of it and grasping its familiar touch.

He hadn't stepped foot in this flat for over a year. He'd visited Mrs. Hudson but out and about, as he had told her he denied all requests to touch the door handle that his late best friend had done so many times before his fall. The thought of him, Sherlock, ached him with such a deep sense of angst that he almost had trouble breathing.

He hadn't gotten rid of any of Sherlock's things and he was paying Mrs. Hudson rent just so he could immortalize Sherlock. The experiment he had been working on before St. Barts or the arrest was still sprawled along the kitchen table. The book John had been reading and the skull was still sitting in its usual spot by the fireplace.

John decided, that because it was Christmas, he'd finally look into Sherlock's bedroom and mourn the loss in a more personal way. He decided to heave himself off Sherlock's chair and make his way towards his bedroom all the while running his hand across anything he could touch. Everything felt so present.

Raw.

As soon as he opened Sherlock's bedroom door he felt the chill of his ghost. His second best dressing gown was shed along the floor, his favorite watch was laying against his dresser, the last book he read idle on his bedside table. And his bed, that was the worst, because John knew it was the last thing to hold him genuinely.

He sat against it. Sherlock had this itchy blanket that John had always hated; stripped, baby blue, and brown. He'd asked him why Sherlock had kept it for so long (because in all actuality it was entirely not his taste) but Sherlock hadn't answered. It was until Mycroft told John that it was his baby blanket that John stopped remarking.

John rubbed his hands against the fabric, grazing his hands and almost searching for any sign that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock had recently slept in it. But he hadn't; the sheets remain entirely cold. That's when John began to cry, nodding his head to himself and whispering, "It's all alright John. Pull yourself together. He'd hate it if you were crying."

He didn't expect it, but a voice answered his monologue. "You're right," the familiar voice echoed. "I would hate it." John's head snapped up in a dizzyingly flash. The voice that belonged to the body was of a ghost.

The slender, curly haired, man stepped towards him with a cup of tea in his right hand. John's mouth muzzled completely shut, his jaw tensing and his fingers flexing. He shut his eyes, trying to rid of the vision. Sherlock wasn't here. Sherlock…Sherlock was dead.

He saw it. The harsh glow of blood that drizzled from his head. The broken bones, snapped in half, and the skull that held the mind of the greatest man he'd ever known, was smashed. He'll never forget his funeral; he hadn't an open casket because of the damage done. But John had seen it. John was _there_.

He decided to give up, considering the footsteps of Sherlock were still tapping against the wooden floor. When John opened his eyes he found his best friend handing him a cup of blistering tea, steaming in the moonlight.

"Tea doesn't brew that fast," John says, rather nonchalantly considering the circumstances.

"-and you don't seem excited that I'm standing in front of you," Sherlock's voice echoed back. He just continued to stand there, gazing at John in such a way it was almost realistic. He had that puzzling eyebrow cocked upwards with his left leg leaning all of his weight. John just shrugged and took a sip of the tea.

"I'm used to seeing you by now. I know this will go away eventually." He answers. "My therapist tells me it'll go away in time…"

Sherlock raises both eyebrows now, tilting his head. "But…" he continues.

"But I don't want them to go away," John says in a whimper.

Sherlock looks grieved. Then he nods towards the direction of the kitchen. "Come on, John."

John follows him, matching beside Sherlock with his slow pace. When they reach the familiar sitting room Sherlock leads him to the window beside his desk. He points to the outside world; the stillness of the night whereas the snow falls so gently it's almost as if all is okay for once in three years.

"Do you think I'd leave without reason?" Sherlock whispers, placing his hands behind his back.

John answers, "Yes."

Sherlock shakes his head. "That's where you're wrong."

John swallows hard. "You were selfish. You didn't think to care about my feelings."

Sherlock tilts an eyebrow, slowly turning towards his dear friend. They are inches from each other now and it occurs to John that he's never been able to_ smell_ his friend in visions. So that's when he does it; John reaches out a hand to Sherlock's face and makes sure he can feel him.

He does. He's there. His skin is soft and reminds him that Sherlock was a real person with actual emotions. So whatever his subconscious is telling him about him leaving without reason…is false. Sherlock Holmes, in all actuality, was raw.

John embraces his friend tightly. He leans his head in the crook of his shoulder, soaking in the rare occasion of being able to touch him in years. He cries, he shakes, he violently sobs. Sherlock takes his hand and presses John's face closer to him while leaning his chin against the top of his crown. He even places his lips to his hair once in a while, just breathing him in.

John wakes up in Sherlock's bed to the sound of Mrs. Hudson's frantic questioning.

It was all a dream.


End file.
